


when morning comes (and fades into one)

by Atlanova



Series: Altering 'The Witchfinder' [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Druids, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Magic, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28636722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanova/pseuds/Atlanova
Summary: One month after Merlin and Morgana make their escape from Camelot to avoid execution, they travel to a small empty village. It's on the outskirts of Anglia and seems perfectly flawless, until one day, everything changes forever.
Relationships: Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Mordred (Merlin), Merlin/Morgana (Merlin), Mordred & Morgana (Merlin)
Series: Altering 'The Witchfinder' [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2098557
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. The Day's Dawning

**Author's Note:**

> hiya! if you haven't already read the prequel, i strongly recommend you do that before reading this!

_"Merlin! Merlin! Young warlock, I know you escaped and I know you can hear me. You must meet me as soon as possible. And bring the witch with you!"_

With a slight gasp, Merlin's head jolts. His eyelids flutter open and a beam of moonlight forces him to squint. He groans and runs his hand through his shorter hair, finger gazing over his forehead. Then, as he hears the light sound of summer rain tap at the windows, he realizes whose voice had awoken him from his spontaneous slumber.

Merlin shifts slightly to lean against the pillar of wood in the sitting area. The fire in the hearth crackles some small distance away from him, and he watches, for a moment, the way it makes tiny swaying shadows on the opposite stone wall. It's a cozy atmosphere, and even in the wake of hearing Kilgarrah's voice in his head after so long, finds himself once again grateful for the village he and Morgana now inhabit. 

They had, after spending that freezing night sleeping in the forest of Geancy, travelled to Ealdor. Merlin had been thrilled to see his mother again, and Morgana had found it to be of surprising comfort. 

They'd only meant to stay there a few days, to reassure her — in case word somehow got to the village — that they were finally safe, and that Aredian no longer had hold over them. But Hunith had insisted that they stay longer. At least long enough to recover from their ordeal, because, as they both soon realised, they'd been shaking as they walked into the village. 

So stay for a month, they had. Merlin caught up with a few old friends from the village, since they'd clearly warmed to the idea of him having magic since the bandit attack two years ago. And Morgana had often found herself immersed in chats with Hunith, finding her an increasingly lovely person with a heart of gold. 

Merlin had helped out with storing the wheat harvest, whilst Morgana had attended to the repair of several farming implements. They'd both decided that it was best familiarise, in Merlin's case, and learn in Morgana's case, something of what making success from crop yields includes.

After all, they knew they had to prepare; a villager from Ealdor had told them of a small village on the East coast of Anglia, a land that bordered Escetir. Apparently it had been used for knights and noblemen to live as the armies manoeuvred during the Great Purge. 

Morgana and Merlin supposed that the village would be worse for wear, having been left for nigh on thirty years exposed to weather and such things. But they liked the idea of it. That they would bring life to a village burdened by the carriers of the past. Especially a past that had caused the downfall of their people. 

Anglia, also, to their relief, is completely hidden behind Escetir, which means that Uther cannot enter the land unless he wishes for his army to march right past Cenred's castle. They hadn't wanted to think of this, of course, but factor it they had to. 

And so, at the end of December, they had set off to Anglia. The journey was cold but not at all arduous; except for the steep hills that lay on the border, the land is flat and most of it is shadowed with a glorious array of tall and swaying conifer trees. After a while, they'd stumbled upon the small village. To the right of the Cereus Mountains, the group of cottages stood, with an overgrown harvest field and a disused pasture, and broken fencing all the way around. As the frost melted and the months flew by, they'd cleared the fields and the pasture, and stabilised main cottage for shelter. There's still work to do on the other buildings, but they are grateful in the fact that they have a long time to do so.

Bringing himself back to the present, Merlin sighs and pokes at the fire with a steel rod, fingers graced intermittently with a coveted heat. 

In all honesty, Merlin had more or less let his mind forsake Kilgarrah. After all, it has been a busy five months and scarcely has he found the time to sit down and think, let alone draw up memories from his life in Camelot that he would rather not dwell on. But during the instances in which Merlin remembered the creature's rumbling voice, he would find it peculiar that he missed him. Above all, Kilgarrah had helped him where needed and sympathised with him when there was nothing to be done. 

For a tiny flicker of time, the oh so distant memory of his younger self fills his mind's eye. He remembers standing on the overhang of the cave during the Witchfinder's tumultuous stay, pouring his heart out about wanting to help Gaius and feeling so helpless. 

Merlin winces and shakes his head rid of the memory. He still cannot fathom going to see Kilgarrah, because he knows that things have changed since then. 

Before he can sit there any longer and dwell on such a thing, the door creaks open and Morgana steps through. 

"Oh, morning, Merlin. You're awake," she says, sarcastically raising an eyebrow at him as she moves to the fire with logs. 

"Erm, yeah. Yeah, I am. Apparently," he mumbles, before frowning and rubbing at his temple. His eyes feel tired as he regards the moss and small tiny droplets of rain on the heel of Morgana's shoes. "Where were you? It must be midnight."

"Yes, something like that," Morgana answers, placing more timber on the fire. Merlin watches the flames rise and dance. "I felt rain coming on, though, and thought that it'd be too late to collect firewood when it's sodden wet."

Merlin nods at her, and shifts again, only just realizing the softness beneath his fingers. He looks down and notices that it's the fur from the rug that is peeking through his fingers and brushing his skin. And then he remembers feeling such a material on the side of his face as he'd woken.

"Morgana, one more question," he says. "Why am I on the rug? 

She gives a small shrug. "Don't ask me. I went out to get these logs about an hour ago. You were slumped in the chair nodding off when I left."

Merlin nods, and then rubs at his forehead again. His eyes seem to waver to the window, where small droplets are weaving their way down, some even morphing into the others. He then lets his gaze float back across to Morgana and feels a small smile tug at his lips. His ears are graced with the sound of her muttering a spell to help the fire along. 

It's not the first time she has preformed magic before Merlin, and he hopes that it will not be the last. In any matter, there's no reason for her not to. They are free, after all — for the foreseeable. 

She could not preform any spells until they spent many an evening, at the village, when they were resting up from renovations, talking about her magic. Whilst Merlin had never been forced to think about his magic before he could actually use it, he supposes that Morgana's requires a different sort of acclimatising. For she was not born with it, and whilst magic comes naturally to her fingertips, she must understand it before she can use it.

And Merlin is always pleased to note that Morgana understands her magic perhaps better than he ever understood his, in the early days. She is always willing to latch onto what he says and attempt a more advanced spell. Sometimes it doesn't work, and sometimes it does. But the mere fact that it does frequently work, is a telling in its own of the strength her magic possesses. Often, if not all the time, Merlin feels something very closely akin to pride.

"Merlin, are you alright? You seem a bit dazed," Morgana says as she sits opposite him. She moves some strands of her hair from her face, having been quickly tied into a low chiffon. 

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," he mutters and shakes his head, returing himself to his thoughts prior to Morgana entering. Merlin gently throws Morgana a blanket, which she gratefully catches. "I sort of … heard Kilgarrah in my head. You know, like I used to."

Morgana seems to consider this for a few moments, for a slight surprise is evident in her eyes. "Maybe he wants you."

"He does. He asked me to meet him as soon as I can."

"What?" she almost laughs, regarding his distant expression. 

It's one that he hasn't had for a long time — at least in her presence, anyway. Sometimes when he's doing something outside such as chopping wood or mending a fence post, Morgana will walk past and look at him. Often, there will be a distress to his eyes in the way his expression twitches even the slightest amount. She thinks that he looks sad, in those instances, and she wonders about Camelot being the cause. She then muses about it to herself as she precedes to walk in the direction she had been going. She'll think of Gwen, and of Gaius, and Arthur, with a hopeful sadness — if there ever is such a thing.

Morgana knows that Merlin does not share the same sanguine attitude as she does. In the days they were held in that cell awaiting their execution, all those months ago, she remembers thinking about it. She recalls trying to understand what Merlin must have been feeling, having faced the parting from his beloved Uncle and from his greatest friend even if there were conflict there. She knew, even then, that Merlin must have been feeling turmoil.

Obviously it had not improved much, come the day Arthur actually spoke to him and the escape plan was shared. She knew it must have improved things, knowing that Arthur did not hate Merlin as he had previously thought. But a considerable change had taken place and Morgana thinks that, even two seasons later, Merlin is perhaps still a little rattled.

Morgana chooses to put aside these thoughts; she has been wishing to talk to Merlin about his feelings toward Camelot, but, in spite of her fiesty and sure nature, she has never been able to bring herself to do it. Maybe it's because it would force him to dwell on a past he has not yet come to terms with, or perhaps it's because she does not wish to interrupt their peaceful lives.

"Merlin, I know you miss Kilgarrah."

She gives him a warm smile, and though she does not mean to, Morgana is aware that there is some form of impish nature on her expression. It's the way Merlin is looking at her — the way he often looks at her when she is teasing; eyebrow quirked — very much in the style of Gaius — and an exasperation in his eyes. 

"Er, no." He huffs silently. "I don't miss him like that."

"Alright, fine," she relents, supposing that Merlin is tired and not wishing to indulge her in their usual squabbling. She also recognizes a seriousness to him and she knows that he will not joke around when he feels like that. "But you should probably go and see what he wants."

Merlin pauses and considers her for a few moments, arms locking around his knees. His eyelids waver somewhat sheepishly. Like he's trying to figure out how she's going to react when he tells her. He is aware that Kilgarrah has a bleak opinion on Morgana, and he is even more aware — perhaps painfully so — that it's completely mutual.

Merlin has told Morgana of the name Kilgarrah used to be so intent on calling her — not by her actual name and never by her prior title. The warlock had hated saying it — had despised his tongue as the words 'He calls you 'The Witch', Morgana' rolled from it. He'd told her that she had been believed, by Kilgarrah, to be the one who brings about Arthur's downfall.

Merlin had watched, as he bit back a pitiful sigh and as his eyes flickered over every inch of Morgana's face. He'd seen the disbelief, and then the anger that tensed her jaw and darkened her eyes. 

He'd then seen the sadness, even if it was so quick that he could have missed it if he'd dared to blink. _'To be degraded by a fellow creature of magic is one thing, Merlin,'_ she had finally muttered, boring her eyes into the blazing hearth, ' _but to have someone believe that I could ever be so brutal and without morality, is another'._

Merlin had hated it, but he knew that she had to know. After all, how can they hope to move forward if they are being followed by the shadows of their past?

Merlin inhales deeply and shuffles on the floor. "That's the thing, Morgana. He ... he wants to see you, too."

He watches Morgana snap her head up to look at him. She shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but Merlin cuts in.

"Morgana, Kilgarrah has no reason to want to harm you. You're not dangerous. I've always believed that, contrary to Kilgarrah's imploring for me to think it."

"I appreciate that, Merlin. Really, I do. But … he believed that I could be a vile witch and I do not wish to indulge such a being with his wishes—"

"Morgana," Merlin says, sighing lightly. He leans forward a little and looks her right in the eye. He pauses for a few moments as he does so and he can't really fathom why. "Do you honestly think that I'd ever take you somewhere I thought was unsafe?"

The rain seems to subside for the hour, its gentle patters becoming almost feather-weight droplets to the ground and the buildings in the village. The thatch of the cottage has trapped it and proves to make it silent. "No, of course not."

"Exactly. I wouldn't. Besides, if he wants to talk to both of us then it must be important." 

"Perhaps he's warning you in case I try and kill you."

Merlin huffs, but, with the preference of ever being the peace-keeper, chooses to let the comment slide. "I promise it's safe," he offers again. He means it equally.

Morgana sighs and stands, placing the blanket beside the fire. She knows that she is not even factoring safety, for it's not a concern she has. But she chooses not to let Merlin know that. "Well, if I've got a dragon lord beside me then I suppose it will be."

"Precisely. And if it's not — which I'm not saying it will be — then you can tell me that you told me so."

"Oh, I won't need you to give me permission."

Merlin stands, legs aching briefly from the strange position he'd somehow morphed into during his sleep. He humms as he shrugs his jacket on. "No, that's a good point. You wouldn't need me to if Kilgarrah decides to literally pick you up and whisk you away somewhere to protect me from danger."

"Merlin, really — that's ridiculous."

Despite Morgana's growing annoyance, Merlin chuckles lightly as they step out into the damp and humid air. 

_____________

Their boots thud softly upon the pale grass path leading past the pasture. A few cows snort and swish their tails as they graze. The evocative aroma of fresh plants comforts their senses, the air is warm and the crickets chirp happily. Both the cover of night and the stars dotted within it are uplifting in their vastness, and at the same time reassuring in their preservation. 

"Are you alright?" Merlin asks Morgana, glancing at her as they walk.

"I'm alright, Merlin," she answers, tone soft despite the dread she feels. It's not that she is necessarily fearful of the dragon; she just truly despises answering the creature's demand. She even has mind to rebuke him for it. 

"You sure?" Merlin presses. He raises an eyebrow and there's uncertainty in his tone.

Morgana resists the urge to roll her eyes but stops walking all the same. Noticing this, Merlin stops and looks back around to her, tilts his head as he retreats few steps. 

"What?" he says. "I was only asking."

"Merlin, I just ... I don't want to face him. I fear I'll get too angry at him, or that ... " she trails off, a new thought swirling around her mind, "... that I'll accidentally lash out with my magic. I'm not fearful of him retaliating, but ... more of my magic reverting back to what it used to be."

Merlin sighs lightly and steps forwards, sympathy and knowing appearing on his expression all at once. "That's what we've spent these last few months controlling your magic for. So it won't do that."

"I know," she says. 

But there's still an uncertainty there - and it's one that Merlin instantly remembers. He recollects the night she first came to him when she suspected her magic. He remembers the tears that had glazed her eyes, remembers feeling a lump burn within his own throat. 

Morgana's sorrow always blindsides him, it seems. 

And so, stepping forwards, he embraces her. It's hesitant and a little awkward which causes Morgana to smile slightly, as she returns the hug. 

Not only is it the first time they've actually hugged, but it's the first time she's felt scared around her magic for ... well, for as long as she can remember, now. But the way Merlin holds his arms around her is as if she may fall through the ground at any moment. She can feel the compassion and the surety in it, and she slowly closes her eyes as they both stand there.

The night is steady and calm, with the breeze only just swaying the leaves and blowing pine needles along the forest floor. There's a hushed whisper as it does so that cushions their ears. Occasionally, an owl will call out or a fox will scurry through the plants, echoing out the sounds of entity into the night.

Finally, Merlin releases his arms and they part. He holds her gaze for a second, and then kicks at the undergrowth with his boot. Morgana, to her annoyance, finds that she cannot look at him without smiling. 

"Merlin?"

"Uh — yes?" 

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiles gently, then motions to continue walking. "And, Morgana? If your magic does seem to be out of control, I'll sense it. I'll let you know. Subtly, of course."

Morgana smiles at him and nods gratefully. "Just like you did in the jail cell that time I nearly threw Uther into the bars?"

"Uh, yeah," Merlin half-laughs and half-scoffs. "When did you figure that one out?"

"Oh, a few seconds ago. You've never actually told me you can sense my magic becoming out of control. But then I put two and two together. It's been bugging me for ages because it just seemed too much of a coincidence."

"Alright, but why did you never just ask me?"

"Where's the fun in that?" 

As they both laugh, the ground beneath their boots levels out and they pause. It seems that they were too immersed in their conversation, for they failed to notice that they'd arrived so quickly.

In front of them is the beginning of the South Anglian Plains, stetching in a strip of land all the way to the border, though they can't see the end. Above them is a full canvas of sky dotted with what must be a million constellations, and there's something about standing in such an open space.

"Merlin, how do you even know he's going to meet us here?" 

"Uh, well, I don't," Merlin replies, shrugging and frowning at the dragon's ironically peculiar logic. "But he always preferred meeting me in strangely exposed areas. It's as if he never actually used to care about being seen by anyone from Camelot." 

__________________

The sorcereress and the sorcerer wait in silence, surrounded only by the sounds of the forest at night. Merlin shifts on his feet, and then gazes up at the sky. He looks expectant — as he should be — but if not a little worried.

Morgana glances at him, and then to the vast field that stretches in dark green shadowed by lack of light. She looks to the sky and then back at Merlin, gaze uncharacteristically agitated, because she, unlike Merlin, is not sure what to expect. After all, she had never known of Kilgarrah's existence during her life at Camelot, and she had never seen a dragon before. She had been taught that because they were creatures of magic, their only intent was to anguish and torment people's jovial way of lives. 

But Morgana does not fail to see that she is more than capable of having her own opinions, now, as Uther's attempt to mold her mind finished years ago. Ultimately, she had never once hated sorcerers as he had, often chiding him and growing vexed when he executed innocents. It's for the same reason that she is not afraid of dragons, as he was.

It circles back to what Merlin told her; she has nothing against the creature as a dragon, but in his seemingly stubborn and biased nature, she finds herself a little more aloof to the idea of meeting him. After all, he believes her capable of a great evil, which is something that causes her stomach to churn whenever she entertains such a thing.

Merlin nudges her and points to the sky. 

Just beside the moon, the dragon graciously flaps his wings in rhythm as he descends from the sky. Both Merlin and Morgana stand ground as they watch.

The dragon finally reaches them, ceasing his flight by gently shuffling his wings until they sit by his sides. A loud thump sounds as he lands, and the great movement breezes strands of Morgana's hair and pushes back Merlin's hair from his forehead. 

"Kilgarrah," Merlin says after a moment, and then he frowns as he speaks again; "It's been a while."

"It has," the dragon rumbles, bowing his head. "Although, I am relieved to see you alive, young warlock." Kilgarrah turns his head, moves his focus to Morgana. His bright eyes are careful. "And you."

Morgana pauses for a moment, finding herself taken aback by the actuality of this creature talking. But she cannot help the sliver of anger that still seeps into the remnants of her voice. "Somehow I doubt that, but I thank you all the same."

Merlin frowns and resists the temptation to roll his eyes. He knows of Morgana's opinion toward Kilgarrah, but he had hoped that she could have held herself back despite that speaking her mind is in her nature. Normally, it's a trait he admires — but not when they are supposed to be having a serious conversation. He supposes that at least Kilgarrah fought the urge to call her 'the witch'.

"Er, right," Merlin mumbles, trying to break the tension. He returns his attention back to Kilgarrah. "Don't think me rude, but why did you call us here?"

"Ah, yes," Kilgarrah exclaims, shifting his old feet. "I have much to tell you both, but let me start with a question." 

The corners of Merlin's mouth twitch as he realises that Kilgarrah is back to his riddles. He used to find them irritating, but in this moment, he's so relieved to see his old friend that it's a comfort he had long forgotten, and one he no longer wishes would stop turning up in his mind. 

"What," Kilgarrah continues, "do you think has happened to your destinies, following your escape?"

As Merlin hears these words, he glances to Morgana, knowing that the answers this question will provoke may be unpredictable. But as he forces himself to think of his own destiny, an answer comes to mind quickly; he had been there for the arrival of Gaius's letter to his mother in Ealdor. And so he is aware that the Physician and Gwen are doing all they can to protect Arthur. Merlin can't do anything about it until Uther's reign ends, and so he thinks that his own destiny had pretty much subsided. 

Morgana, on the other hand, despite her ever-present hatred for Uther, never thought she had ill-intent in the first place. She may have despised the King, but never had she experienced a desire to kill innocent people stemmed from a nonexistent loneliness. She had dearly loved the people of Camelot, and she yearns for the day she may return to their company. 

Despite what the dragon may think.

This final thought causes another anger to rise in Morgana, and she looks at Merlin, whose brow raises and whose eyes widen in a warning. He looks stern, and so Morgana fights back her frustration; she assumes, after all, that he knows how best to deal with Kilgarrah.

Morgana looks back to Kilgarrah. "I assume that they will have changed. Merlin's cannot continue if he isn't near Arthur, and ... " she trails off, and there is tension palpable among the three of them. Even so, Morgana cannot help the bitterness in her tone; "As for mine ... well, I cannot hate people I am not near, can I?"

Kilgarrah bows his head slightly, nostrils flaring as he snorts softly. Merlin, however unexpectedly, notices what he thinks to be a slight sympathy in the dragon's yelllow eyes.

"Yes, you are correct, Morgana." Kilgarrah says. "And you should note that the moment Merlin was thrown into that jail cell with you was the moment your destiny changed. You would not have grown isolated in your hatred if you did not have your kin to confide in. And, in this instance, that is exactly what happened."

Morgana and Merlin glance at one another at this. They grow tired as the truth sinks in - that things could have gone drastically different, had they not been so trusting of one another and so compassionate in their confiding and discussions. Merlin swallows gently as he sees a tender gratefulness slightly tinted with sorrow awash Morgana's eyes, and, somehow, he feels the same in his own.

"But - wait," Merlin suddenly says, returning his eyes to the dragon. "I didn't think a destiny could be changed like that. Why did you never tell me?"

Kilgarrah pauses in thought, blinking his heavy eyelids at Merlin. "Because, young warlock-"

"You're the one who told Merlin not to reveal his magic to me," Morgana interrupts, her statement only further confusing their minds. "If he'd listened to you, nothing would have changed and everything would be going downhill."

"I did not know of your changing destinies until after your advent from Camelot. I went to see the Goddess of Incantation, and she told me. I was as confused as you are now, believe it or not," he says. "Morgana, I entirely thought that if Merlin told you of his magic, it would do more harm than good, because of your ... apparent descent into, shall we say, fiendish ways. But it seems that I was mistaken, and if I had known that, I would not have told him to do so," Kilgarrah responds, voice raspy with sentiment and wise age.

An owl hoots somewhere within the forest behind them. Its call echoes around the trees and escapes through the gaps in the branches. The cool seasonal breeze sways a few pine needles onto the plains, scattering it onto the grass.

"Er, alright," Merlin begins, backtracking to the original conversation, "so ... what exactly do these changed destinies involve?"

Kilgarrah stomps his foot as he shifts his weight."Well - Merlin, as your destiny was originally to prevent Arthur's downfall, it has only changed a little. With the Goddess, I witnessed the writing on the stone change then and there. Instead of preventing Arthur's death, you are now preventing yours and Morgana's, for you both play pivotal roles in the way the years will unfold. In doing so, you will hopefully find - so long as you defeat the enemy - that you are also protecting Camelot from any future dangers. You must both protect the prospect of good magic and the safety of your kind. You must heed the signs along the way, and decide what to do. This is your destiny. Its fate is at your hands."

And with that, the old dragon bows his head, before lifting his enormous body into flight. His wings loudly flap and some nearby trees even creak with the pressure. Gradually, he becomes further away until he is nothing but a speck in the distance.

"What, that's it? He just flies off?" Morgana exclaims.

"Hmm?" Merlin mutters, dragging his focus away from the sky and to his companion. "Oh, yeah. He likes to do that. Usually he doesn't actually give you any information; he just sort of ... blurts out a ton of riddels, thinking they're helpful. Well, either that, or he was just amusing himself." Merlin pauses after realising he was rambling again. He clears his throat. "Luckily he did this time, though."

"Yes, well, he will have needed to," Morgana says almost warily, before noticing Merlin's distant expression. "Merlin, are you alright?"

The sorcerer looks away for a moment, lips pursed, as if he is trying to process the shock he feels. And then, as the breeze picks up a little, a gracious beam crosses his expression. "Yes, Morgana. I think I am."

As the night transitions to early dawn, the sorcer and the sorceress walk back to their village. In the quiet and gentle silence, animals begin to wake and the plants begin to crave the sunlight of day once again.

Morgana and Merlin know that once the sun rises, the reality of their new future will wake, along with the day's dawning.


	2. The Fall of Dusk

_"Ouch!"_

Morgana turns around and watches Merlin stumble over yet another root and into another luckluss tree trunk.

"Merlin, really. I know you're prone to falling over, but you're going to break one of your legs at this rate."

The sorcerer only huffs and ambles forwards to catch Morgana up. "It's hardly my fault this time. Kilgarrah was the one who insisted we meet him at midnight," he says, as they both wander further into the forest. "And then I couldn't sleep because I was thinking about what he said."

Morgana only laughs silently as she scours the forest floor, and then dramatically exclaims: "Yes, alright, oh clumsy one."

"Morgana! I'm not clumsy," he tries to protest, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Oh, Merlin. When we return to Camelot, I'll get every single villager to tell you directly how clumsy you are."

Merlin pauses for a moment as he clears a low-hanging branch out of his way. He frowns. "Why just the villagers?"

"Because they go to the markets a lot."

"And how do you know I used to fall over in the markets?"

"Well," she begins, stepping over a small stream, "let's just say it was a source of great amusement for Gwen and I during our market strolls."

"Oh, right," he mutters, then shoots her sarcastic glance. "Well … thanks, Morgana."

They walk for a while more, finding solace in the new day. The sun beams down from the sky and bursts through the trees. It illuminates the lush green forest floor on which grass and pine needles lay in an idyllic profusion. The birds sing at their loudest above, joined in their melodies by bees as they noisily flit through the plants. The smell of pine itself, fresh streams of flowing water, and the dense earthy undertones of the forest floor offer more than a haven to the senses. Above, even higher than the swaying trees of green, is a cloudless and vibrant blue sky.

Morgana and Merlin, following their mutual decision to frequently venture into the forest in order to gather herbs and vegetation, are currently scouting for Arctostaphylos. It's a medicinal plant, as they often are, that prevents bleeding from wounds. Found beneath bushes on the forest floor — as they must grow in dry conditions, only gaining water from small roots in the soil — its berries, thankfully, make it recognisable.

Neither Merlin nor Morgana are as skilled as Gaius — and until they return to Camelot, never will be, without proper teaching. But during their stay at Ealdor, Hunith had gifted them with one of Gaius's medical books.

Morgana had insisted that they couldn't possibly take it from her, to which Hunith had replied:

'Oh, it was many years ago he gave me this. Everyone here knows all we need to know, now, and it'll be of more use to you both.'

And so, since moving to their village, they had spent many a night studying it. And with winter recurring in a few months, they'd figured that gathering the required plants in bulk, whilst they still thrive, is the best thing to do.

Merlin very much enjoys these ventures. He'd never really been much of a labourer, what with lacking much of the physical body strength that requires one to be such a thing; he prefers the duties that involve roaming the lands. It's also something he is vaguely familiar with, after all, for in Camelot, Gaius often sent him out to collect herbs and such things. Granted, he often met strange creatures and evil sorcerers, and so he would have to run back to Camelot to save Arthur's neck. 

But still, he enjoyed it all the same.

"Ah ha!" Merlin suddenly exclaims, bending down on one knee. He smiles as he retrieves the plants shrouded in red berries and thin green leaves.

Morgana wants to roll her eyes — honestly, she does — but instead she finds that the corners of her mouth twitch into a smile, as she watches a silly grin appear on Merlin's face.

____________

As midday rolls around, the two are still venturing in the forest. They had since picked up a batch of Tarragon — a thin-leaved green plant found in forest clearings that reduces fatigue, and Fenugreek — found in the same place, a bushy plant that treats fevers and an array of other things.

Today they take a different route. Normally, they stay within the level grounds of the forest, but they need to find sheep. Apparently, according to Hunith, there are many sheep that wander around each of the lands. And so they walk along the ridge of the plains and the forest, a clearing of land rich in tall grass.

"Merlin," Morgana begins, voice a little distant. "What if … what if I start having nightmares again?" 

At this, the warlock's enthusiastic footsteps slow down so much that his boots only pad slowly on the moss. He bites his lip as he considers her question, and then looks to Morgana. "I wish I could tell you otherwise, but from what Kilgarrah said, your Seers powers will begin to wake again. Given … you know, the new destiny and the dangers, whatever they may be." 

She only nods, focus set on the path ahead. 

Merlin remains quiet for a moment as he registers the dread that seems to have set itself in Morgana's worried eyes. 

"I know that … " he begins slowly, clicking his tongue as he chooses his words carefully, " … that you're fearful of them, as I would be, if I were tormented with them. And I wish I could offer you some consolation."

She gives him a fleeting smile. "Don't worry, Merlin, really. It's alright. I only wanted to know if there was a chance it might happen."

"I'm sorry," he adds quietly, placing his hand to her elbow. 

They walk a little further, their steps now slower as the heat of the summer rays insist on finding them, even beneath the trees. 

Merlin hadn't bothered to bring his jacket, for the air was humid even in early morning, a foretelling of a hot day. He has since rolled up the sleeves of his red shirt and uncomfortably adjusted his blue kerchief too many times. 

Morgana, having donned the dress she escaped Camelot on the first night they arrived in Ealdor, has swapped her attire for the clothes she used to wear on particularly long horse rides and journeys to neighbouring castles during her life in Camelot; she now frequents black trousers, and different coloured shirts of grey, white, olive green and cerulean blue. Today, wearing the white one seemed a sensible idea to fight off the heat from the sun, as was the idea to twist her hair into a lose chiffon.

Morgana finds her focus wavering along to the plains which she can see through the gaps in the trees. For a moment, she thinks she sees a dark blue object on the other side of a nearby tree. She shakes her head of it, but then, a moment later, it reappears. She thinks she can make out a hood, and then a trail of blood.

"Merlin," she mutters, gently grabbing his wrist and nodding her head in the direction of her sighting.

The pair run over to the stranger. They don't bother to ready their magic in case of danger, because they recognized the meaning of the clothing straight away. 

As they round the tree and come face-to-face with mysterious druid, Morgana's eyes widen as Merlin, unaware of the identity of a second druid lingering nearby, bends to look at the first druid's wound. 

"Don't worry," Merlin breathes, "I only wish to help you. My friend and I live in the village South of here," he explains. The old druid woman hesitantly nods, and Merlin enquires into the woman's name.

"My name is … " she mutters, aged eyes fluttering closed as she leans against the tree, " … Estrilda."

Merlin tries to smile reassuringly, and removes his kerchief to press to the wound. "Well, Estrilda — I'm Merlin, and my friend here, is Morgana. You're going to be fine, alright? Don't worry," he says, earning a tired smile from the woman. 

"Morgana, we need to take Estrilda back to the village," Merlin orders, and when there's no reply, he turns around to face her. "Morgana—"

Only, he stops, as his gaze lands on the same person he figures Morgana is looking at. 

Standing beside the tree, seemingly adamant on protecting his fellow druid, is a druid boy, roughly around fifteen or sixteen, with black hair and piercing blue eyes. 

"Mordred," Merlin mutters, voice notably serious.

He hears Morgana break from her shock and call the boy's name with much more enthusiasm and happiness than he had. As the two reunite in a hug, Merlin shakes his head and attempts to stand Estrilda up. 

"Morgana, I hate to break your reunion, but I could really do with some help," Merlin calls, struggling to hold Estrilda up by himself. He realises that the wound isn't very serious, but she has still lost blood, and that coupled with the fact that the wound may be infected, isn't a great outcome and means that Estrilda's weariness may worsen without treatment.

____________

The day moves by, the bright sun descending into the hills. The orange glow of dusk falls, slowly, inbetween the gaps in the trees, and manoeuvres its way around the houses in the village.

It's a little dark since the summer heat means that the hearth is only used at night, and so Mordred lights the few candles he can see with his magic. 

He remains quiet as he watches Morgana and Merlin treat Estrilda. If it were anyone else who had come to their aid, he would be protesting, but he knows Morgana and Merlin. He knows they are good people. 

Well, he had at least thought that Merlin was a good person. After all, he recalls the warlock's help when he was injured, remembers how he had risked his neck to get him to Morgana's chambers — to safety. But then, as he has always failed to forget, he remembers the long while he and Prince Arthur had waited in that dungeon tunnel. He'd known that Merlin had changed his mind about helping him.

Mordred is grateful he did help, in the end. But he still doesn't understand why it had been so in the first place. 

As the fetid scent of Estrilda's blood reaches Mordred's nose, he wrinkles it, and then shrinks further into the wall. 

For years, Mordred has supposed that Merlin has something against him. But what exactly, he has no idea; for one, he has never acted in malice or in a way one may consider corrupt. However, the way Merlin's expression had dropped when he saw him, makes a horrific doubt surge through Mordred's blood. The older sorcerer had looked aloof and almost distrustful. It both confuses and angers Mordred.

He meets Morgana's eyes — the kinder eyes, Mordred thinks, and the ones that have always made him feel consoled. She gives him a brief smile, but, seemingly catching his strange mood, there is concern in her eyes. Nevertheless she looks away, as she must focus on Estrilda's wound.

Mordred finds his focus drifting to Merlin, and he feels his temple crumple. He feels his jaw tensing as he looks at this … this seemingly temperamental and uncertain young man. 

The boy cannot seem to fathom Merlin, as he had not done for years.

He is aware that Merlin has goodness in his heart. Although, his aloofness has caused Mordred to doubt what else lay within his heart.

After all, Mordred had always been told, by the more careful druids, never to trust a stranger. And, regrettably, to him, that's what Merlin seems to be. 

_____________

"Are we to set out first thing, to find the other druids?" Merlin asks in a hushed whisper. His focus is stuck on Mordred as he sits patiently beside Estrida. The boy had earlier told them of two other druids that were left behind.

Morgana glances to him, and she notices the uncertainty in Merlin's eyes that's never good. But she doesn't particularly like that he's directing it at Mordred; Morgana doesn't think boy has ever done anything that would cause one to look at him the way Merlin has been doing all evening. 

"We must. Especially if one is injured," she replies.

"Do you think Mordred will come with us?" he asks in a monotone.

Morgana blinks, exasperated and slightly annoyed. "Why don't you just ask Mordred yourself?" 

Merlin looks at Morgana as if she'd grown an extra arm. He frowns and then shakes his head. "No, no. He's with Estrilda."

Morgana simply sighs and leans against the stone wall behind. She doesn't understand Merlin's reasoning for treating Mordred like he is, but she cannot fight the anger as she falls asleep, and nor can she question him, as her head falls to his shoulder. 

The one thing Morgana makes a note of before she sleeps, is that sometime very soon, she will have Merlin explain himself.

______________

As the evening bleeds into midnight, Merlin blinks slowly, his tired eyelids fighting to stay open. He wants to sleep, but somehow, he can't find the security to do so. 

After what Kilgarrah had told him all those months ago, when they'd rescued Mordred, he doesn't necessarily feel like either he or Morgana would be safe sleeping, whilst he is still awake. 

Because Merlin can't get the niggle out of his head — the one that keeps reminding him that Mordred is to play a part in Arthur's death. If such an innocent boy could ever possibly grow into such a monster, then he supposes that anything's possible.

If Mordred is destined to kill Arthur, Merlin really doesn't quite know how the next few months are going to go. Truthfully, he hadn't ever hoped to see him again, even if he'd known that the prophecy made that impossible. But now he must somehow prevent Arthur from dying — however far away that truth may be — without actually entering Camelot. He doesn't know how he's going to do it.

But one thing he does know is the relief that his exhaustion humms to him; at some point during the early hours, Mordred wanders over to one of the benches and trails a stray blanket over himself, finally letting sleep grab him.

Merlin waits a while, until he's sure it's safe, and then he's already helplessly pulled into a slumber as his head falls to Morgana's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Next time:_ Morgana confronts Merlin, and more druids are rescued ...


	3. A Village of Many

Morgana's ears are filled with the sounds of bustling — movements and whispers of conversation. It's a sound that the cottage has had a lack of up until now, but it isn't suffering a lack; it only fills a home that was already peaceful.

She quietly thinks to herself as she grinds the Fenugreek leaves in a small steel pot on the hearth, mulling over small nothings. After Estrilda had developed an acute fever within the last few hours, Morgana had seen it fit to treat it as soon as possible, with a small tincture every few hours. Whilst the Fenugreek moistens, Morgana sets about preparing more Borrage — a purple plant for Estrilda's pain. 

She hears Merlin at the other side of the room, and normally she would have felt the impulse to spare him a glance. Or a particularly lengthy glance, if he wasn't looking. Only, right now, Morgana successfully and firmly fights it. For her vexation for him sits above anything else she may feel.

Morgana didn't have the time to talk to Merlin about Mordred this morning, as, when they woke — somewhat awkwardly with their limbs somehow sprawled over the other's — they'd set out as soon as they could to find the other druids. Merlin had been grumbling about leaving Mordred alone in their village. Morgana had had none if it, and had eventually resided to tugging his arm to make him leave quicker. Besides, they couldn't have hung around whilst there were injured druids waiting to be found. Merlin had, of course, come to terms with that, aside the mumbling. 

And she didn't even have chance to talk to him on the journey, as they'd very soon come across the druids. 

As it had turned out, Morgana's mind had been completely distracted of her anger upon recognizing one of the druids. 

In front of her, she'd seen Aglain.

First, she'd felt his magic. She didn't realise her own magic had attached to his all those years ago, but it seems that even if it was weak back then, it still had a way. His voice had been that unmistakable soft tone as he'd spoken the question of her name.

She'd smiled and hugged him, for he wasn't very injured, with only a gash to his forehead that could easily be cleaned. Merlin had greeted him, breifly but politely — a _lot_ more pleasanly than he'd greeted Mordred, Morgana had noted. Merlin had then knelt before an older druid — by the name of Aldus, as they were told — who had lay on the forest floor.

Merlin was careful when examining Aldus, as he had supposed that he was only a little older than Estrilda, yet more frail. The man had coughed and groaned in pain, the many wrinkles on his face curling into one another. Merlin had expected to see blood on his white robes, but Aglain had told them that Aldus had not been injured, only that his cough is always worsened with stress and physical exertion.

And so Merlin and Morgana had slowly walked Aldus back to their village, where they'd given him a potion of liquidated Horsehound for the cough. The elder druid had been sleeping ever since. 

Morgana finishes combining the Fenugreek and Borrage tincture, and pours it from the vial into a small steel cup. She turns and walks over to Estrilda who's now waking after a while of dozing on and off.

The sorceress smiles warmly at the druid, whispering a kind greeting as she sits beside the bed. 

"I have your cure," Morgana tells Estrilda with a smile, showing her the cup and moving her hand to the back of the older woman's head. Estrilda drinks the potion, and then settles her head back down with a tired sigh.

"Thank you, dear," Estrilda mumbles, blinking slowly at the younger woman. 

"Well, we must get you better!" she says. "It'd be nice to share company with someone else for once, rather than that bumbling buffoon over there," she blurts, nodding over to Merlin across the room.

She'd said it without even thinking — without remembering that she's vexed at Merlin for treating Mordred with such cold detachment. Morgana shakes her head of the thought. 

"Oh, you don't mean that," Estrilda whispers, giving Morgana a brief wink and chuckling.

"Only moderately," Morgana says, sharing Estrilda's slightly mischievous smile. 

"He is kind and fair," Estrilda says, perhaps more seriously this time.

Morgana pauses for a moment, moving her eyes away from Estrilda and instead letting them find Merlin. She knows that her jaw tenses in anger as she notices how he still is not paying Mordred any heed, but to her annoyance she cannot help but regard how diligent he is. Truly a young budding physician and sorcerer, Merlin gives a waking Aldus another small tincture. With a brief flash of his eyes and wave of his hand, Merlin creates a cluster of fireflies in the air in front of Aldus. There's a wonder in the druid's eyes as he watches, among wheezing slightly, and Morgana can even feel the old man's awe from where she is sitting. She watches, with a dreamed focus, as Merlin smiles kindly at the man, before he turns back to tidy the workspace.

"Yes, he is," Morgana mutters, returning her somewhat distracted focus to Estrilda.

"So why have you not spoken to him since you got back with the others?" she asks tentatively. Morgana notes Estrilda's shining jade eyes and the way the slight wrinkles curl beneath them, as curiosity appears on her face.

Morgana finds herself at a momentary loss for words, and frowns delicately as she considers her thoughts. 

"Between you and me, Estrilda, he has not been entirely fair in his judgements."

"And what is he judging?" 

Morgana hears the intermittent crackling of the hearth a short distance behind them, feels her ears shrouded with the breeze of another cool summer afternoon outside. She looks at Estrilda, her eyes entirely certain as her sharp tongue speaks its next words.

"Someone he once knew, a long time ago."

___________

After Merlin clears the workspace from making Aldus's second Horsehound potion, he glances up to see Aglain. The man is sitting beside an open window, a content smile on his face. The faint melodious birdsong filters through, and a streak of sun shines through to illuminate a few tables and chairs in the pantry. 

Merlin ducks under the chunky low-hanging wooden beam and enters the pantry, giving Aglain a greeting smile. From various compartments, Merlin bends to retrieve a clean cloth, a strip of dressing and the jar of oat paste used to stick said dressing. 

"You don't have to, Merlin. I'm fairing alright over here; your chosen village is a haven to look out to," Aglain tells him.

Merlin smiles happily and nods, wholeheartedly agreeing with Aglain's latter sentiment. He sits on the chair opposite the druid. "It is indeed, but that doesn't mean your wound doesn't need seeing to."

Aglain chuckles and gestures for Merlin to go ahead with cleaning his wound. Whilst Merlin dabs at it with the cloth, Aglain spares a glance behind them to the living area where Morgana, Mordred and Estrilda talk amongst themselves.

"It's a very sufficient setup, you and Morgana have, here. Plenty of buildings, field space, a spacious house. Not to mention both of your magic and Physician skills. You're quite blessed."

"I appreciate that," he acknowledges, glancing at Aglain. "But Morgana and I have always thought it was luck, after everything that happened. Sort of like ... we couldn't be given any more chances to do good with things." 

Aglain pauses for a moment. "You were misfortuned?" 

"Hm? Oh, well ... yes," Merlin begins. He bites his lip briefly, processing all the flashes of last year before he lets them rampant on his tongue. "A short while after I found out of Morgana's magic, a man called the Witchfinder arrived in Camelot. The King had sent for him after I sort of ... used magic in front of a villager. The Witchfinder interviewed me and Morgana, and imprisoned my uncle. He was pardoned, thankfully, but Morgana and I were sentenced to burn at the stake. We escaped, but ... let's just say that another fate was very close."

Aglain looks at Merlin for a few moments after that, a very quiet wonder on his face. "I'm truly sorry you were put through that," he says. "I can't say I'm surprised, though, trapped in the same castle as Uther. I'm only grateful you've found your freedom."

Merlin gives Aglain a breif smile as he continues to dab the wound, seemingly not agreeing entirely. "It wasn't all that bad. Most of it was actually ... content and all I've ever wanted. Well, if we're talking about company and the feeling of belonging."

"But ... how did you belong? You lived in a place you were forced to hide who you are. I don't ... I don't understand."

Merlin smiles sadly. "Well, I ... it wasn't always like that. I mean, I didn't always think like that. I had Arthur, Gaius, Gwen, and Morgana. I'd created a new life there and I was sad to leave it."

"Of course," Aglain says kindly. "To have company you can rely upon is a wonderful thing. But ... did you say Arthur? As in ... prince Arthur?" 

Merlin lets himself grin, and, after refusing to let the past nostalgic memories blind him from remembering the past, tells Aglain all about Arthur. About what a prat he was but a soul with a kind heart - a kinder one than his brute of a father. With every ounce of pride, Merlin tells Aglain of his destinies - piror and new - and of Kilgarrah, of his service and friendship to Arthur. 

The story - not all told, but enough for now, Merlin thinks - leaves Aglain astounded. He gives a awestruck laugh as he processes this, and considers the sadness yet the joy in Merlin's eyes. 

"That's quite extraordinary, Merlin. Especially the prince ... accepting your magic, which is truly something I never thought I'd hear," he says. "Even more so, the fact that you and Morgana managed to find stability in the difficult phases of your lives."

Merlin gives the druid an agreeing smile, before curiosity glints his eyes. He gently places the dressing to Aglain's forehead. "You've not always had such a stable life, though, have you? You and the others?"

Aglain smiles kindly as he senses no condescension in Merlin's voice. Just interest and inquiviteness. "No. We've always moved around, and ... well, been such a large group. Until ... until that day Morgana came to us. The day ..." 

Merlin pauses and his face almost pales, as he finishes for Aglain; "The day ... Arthur ordered the attack on your camp."

The warlock glances down and runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. He feels a pang of guilt and then a slight anger, for he hadn't even thought to apologise to Aglain for that day.

"Aglain," Merlin begins, voice heavy and honest, "I am ... so sorry for causing that. I was the one who sent Morgana there, out of my own cowardice. I could have told her of my magic, but ... instead I caused the-"

"Merlin, please. I'm sure you did not know of the consequences."

Merlin stares at the druid, having expected him to react with a hint of anger; he had not foreseen to hear patience and kindness in Aglain's voice. "Uh - well, no. I didn't know, but-"

"Then there is no argument, Merlin. We forgave you long ago, the four of us," the slightly older druid says. He smiles and there's an ever-present warmth in his deep eyes. 

Merlin rubs the back of his neck, trying to process this. There's a shift between them, something akin to to normality. As if this conversation has changed nothing — and, in retrospect, it hasn't. Merlin knows that out of everyone in this world, the druids are the most kind and genuine. He is grateful for their forgiveness, but for a moment doubts the genuineness of Mordred's. After all, Merlin recalls that the boy has been giving him strange looks recently, ones that seem to be shrouded in confusion and secrecy. Merlin knows that Mordred would not look like that if he didn't have some sort of conflict with him.

He's shaken from these thoughts as Aglain starts talking again, of years ago.

"We were split from the others, after that attack. The ones that did make it, we supposed were too injured to move far, though we did not know that to help them," he says. "We just moved around after that, camp after camp, never staying in one place for very long for fear of another attack. We haven't met any other druids since, which is unusual."

Merlin feels a distinct sadness in his heart at Aglain's words. He suffered with being captured once, and he does not know how he would cope with having a lifetime of it, as the druids have. But there's something niggling in his mind — something that Aglain's last sentence caused.

Acknowledging the thought, Merlin lowers his voice and regards Aglain carefully. "Are you saying that ... that the four of you are the last druids?" 

With a small movement, Aglain nods.

Merlin never thought he would hear such a sad thing, that so many of their kin have perished to Uther. He feels a rage rise in his veins at the ageing King, but it's thankfully subsided by the gratitude that comes from knowing there are at least some surviving druids.

And a wonder that comes from the knowledge that he has had the privilege to meet them. 

Well, Mordred, not so much, Merlin breifly thinks.

"So how were you injured?" Merlin asks, feeling that they've covered enough ground to ask him such a thing. 

"Oh, yes. Well, we were just travelling, trying to find somewhere new to set up camp for a while. We were on the Anglia-Escetir border when we met Cenred and a few of his soldiers. He likes to leave his castle every summer to journey to the neighbouring kingdoms ... that are, let's just say, disliked. They aren't involved in trades or treaties, that sort of thing, simply because the more wealthier kingdoms don't trust them."

Merlin sounds a small _hmm_ as he considers this, and recalls the name of Cenred as one voiced in Camelot with disdain and a little fear. "Well, Uther did have one alliance with him that meant they wouldn't cross one another's borders, because if they did, a war would start."

Aglain scoffs at that and shakes his head. "They're just two brutes unable of talking properly, instead residing to threats of blood shed instead."

Merlin concurs, nodding silently, and gestures for Aglain to continue. 

"Anyway, as you probably know, Cenred is a man who takes pleasure in causing trouble and taking his malice out on innocents. When we came across him, his men grinned, drew their swords, and … well, the rest you can probably infer."

Merlin sighs and nods, running a hand through his hair. He wonders, exasperated, as to whether or not the sovereigns especially will cease thinking they can do whatever they like and injure anyone they see fit with no reprimand.

"We just ran across the border. We had no idea it was some kind of barrier from Uther, though. It's a fortunate one, mind," Aglain continues.

Merlin looks down from the wound to meet Aglain's eyes, as the druid voices his next observation.

"Suppose that all of us sorcerers hid here, there would be a land full of sorcerers. Uther would hate that," Aglain says, a slight grin on his expression.

"Yes, but it also means he can't cross the border. We're safe here," Merlin reassures, and then pauses. "Well, so long as Cenred doesn't decide to seek us out here and cause trouble."

Although originally supposed to have been levity, the concern of Cenred niggles at Merlin's mind more than he would like.

_____________

Come evening, Merlin and Aglain, after spending a while more talking in the pantry, return to the living area. The hearth still crackles and there's a comforting warmth in the room.

Aglain briefly goes to speak to Mordred, whilst Merlin walks by Estrilda. Satisfied that she is recovering and sleeping soundly, he finally pads to the hearth and sits on the rug. He spares a glance to Morgana as he locks his arms around his knees, and upon seeing her distant expression whilst she sharpens a sword, Merlin glances away.

He knows that look, after all. The one that tenses her jaw, the one that hardens her emerald eyes and makes them home to conflict. And it's one that has always made him a little fidgety, for the only few people back in Camelot who used to direct anger at him was Arthur, which honestly had never actually scared him. And Gaius — but Merlin supposes that's a give and take, seeing as it doesn't take much to vex the old Physician.

But Morgana, well, back in Camelot she had never actually ever been angry at him. Sometimes he had witnessed an argument with Uther or Arthur, and he'd flinched even though he wasn't actually involved. Since escaping, though, Merlin had only had the privilege of her joyous and relaxed nature. 

However, Merlin thinks back to when he revealed his magic to Morgana, in that cold and dusty cell. He'd watched the piercing frustration swirl in her eyes, then, but there had also been sadness and confusion in them, too, so he supposes that he doesn't really know what it's entirely like to be at the recieving end of Morgana when she is this angry.

He knows he is, now, though. But he has grown in the last year, and things that used to scare him don't tend to do so anymore. Nevertheless he still fidgets as he asks Morgana is she's alright.

Morgana looks at Merlin, and she registers the way his head tilts at her in curiosity, the way his foot subconsciously taps on the stone floor.

She sighs tightly and flickers her focus to Mordred, and then back to Merlin. She holds her gaze there for what Merlin only assumes is a purposefully lengthy amount of time. 

"I'm fine, Merlin," she says, nodding at him slightly before she returns her attention to the sword.

Merlin sighs tiredly and looks at Morgana, no amusement evident on his expression. "If you've got something to say, I'd rather you just said it instead of looking at me like you want to chop one of my limbs off with that sword."

Morgana frowns at yet another burst of tact from Merlin. She recalls it first happening when they were imprisoned, often finding that his voice had completely changed to a more serious register. It doesn't usually happen, these days, though.

She sighs and goes to tell him exactly what's on her mind, only stopping once she realises that Mordred may overhear it. She shakes her head. 

"I can't, Merlin. Not here." 

He nods slowly and stands up. "Then we'll go outside."

____________

The night seems to mirror the glorious summer's day it had been, as the almost fully grown wheat sways gently in the breeze, a nearby steam trickles soothingly and crickets seem to be enjoying a chorus hidden in the undergrowth.

But Morgana and Merlin do not have the minds to contemplate the quiet night as they had done so many times before; they are barely a few steps outside the cottage when Morgana speaks first. 

"Alright, Merlin. I've had enough of you giving Mordred so many glares. What's he ever done to you? I thought you'd have been relieved to see him alive and well."

"Erm - hold on, Morgana. He's been glaring at me, too," Merlin retorts, a strange expression contorting his face.

" _Merlin!"_ Morgana hisses. "May I remind you that _you're_ supposed to be the adult here! Now, come on. What's going on?"

Merlin pauses for a moment, and then takes a seat on one of the wooden benches. He runs a hand over his face as serious dawns on him.

"Morgana, I … " he seems to lose his thoughts; Morgana watches carefully as Merlin looks down at his hands. His tired and cracked hands damaged from days of farming and renovating parts of their village. Morgana continues to regard the way a strange light shines within Merlin's eyes. Almost like there's a deep concern there that's visible to all, yet buried beneath his hesitant tongue.

Merlin inhales gently. "There's ... there's something about Mordred that you don't know."

Morgana persists to stand where she is, only choosing to cross her arms as confusion washes over her expression. "Like what?"

Merlin sighs again and leans forward, nudging his boot into the grass. He breifly looks sideways at Morgana and tries to ignore the way the loose strands of her raven hair slowly whirl across her face. The way her loose-fitting shirt flaps in the breeze. He knows he must focus on the situation at hand. 

"Kilgarrah … told me something, back when we rescued Mordred."

Morgana narrows her eyes at Merlin, the mention of the dragon not particularly raising her spirits. She finds herself concerned as to what Merlin's next words may be and she senses a growing impatience as the quiet humid night falls around them. 

"He told me that Mordred is going to kill Arthur."

There's a pang to her chest and she feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She could not have foreseen such a shocking thing.

In fact, Morgana feels so taken back that she sways a little and almost staggers. Merlin immediately frowns and stands up, moving his hands to her elbows to steady her. 

There are a million words settled within Morgana's eyes, Merlin notes, as they stand no more than one step away from one another. The night seems to still as he sighs through his nose and watches Morgana's eyes move up to him, as if reaching another conclusion. He only hopes that she believes him.

"Merlin," she whispers. There's an angry disbelief to her tone that makes Merlin internally huff. Of course, he knew that Morgana's naturally stubborn nature would not make this easy. "How could you believe that?"

Merlin nods slightly and scoffs as he steps away from her.

He really should have also known that she would get protective. After all, he has seen for himself the close bond that exists between Morgana and Mordred. He saw it years ago when she was determined to help the boy flee, and he saw the relief in their reunion yesterday.

"I have to protect Arthur, Morgana. I have to believe it."

Morgana scoffs angrily. "I can't quite believe what I'm hearing, Merlin."

Merlin frowns and shakes his head, not entirely sure where this conversation is going. "I know it's a lot to-"

"No, Merlin. Not that. I mean ... how can you believe that Mordred is so dangerous?"

"I told you. Kilgarrah said that—"

"And you're really still listening to him after everything that's happened?"

Merlin takes a step forward and stutters. _"What?"_

"You know what I'm talking about, Merlin," she snaps, walking closer to him with anger seething in her eyes. "Kilgarrah told you that I was to have a role in Arthur's death, but you didn't believe that."

"That's because I never saw it in you."

"But you're telling me that you see evil in that frightened orphaned boy we rescued?"

Merlin purses his lips and steps backwards, creating more distance between them. He doesn't wish to argue and he simply does not share the same mettle as she does. He feels tired from the day's exertions and reaches the conclusion that this argument is not particularly helping to boost his energy levels.

"Quite frankly, Merlin, I feel as if you're pointing fingers at people you really don't know are actual threats," Morgana says, and Merlin removes his hand from tiredly rubbing at his face to look at her. "Kilgarrah didn't say anything about Mordred this time around. Surely he would have done, if Mordred is as dangerous as you say," she tells him shortly. "Perhaps Mordred isn't all you think he is, Merlin."

_Or perhaps Mordred isn't all_ you _think he is, Morgana,_ is what Merlin wants to say.

But instead he finds himself considering her proposition and his voice is softer. More lenient, perhaps. But he still knows where he stands. Where he always seems to stand: on the familiar line that wavers between decision and risk. "I have to protect Arthur, Morgana. Even if Kilgarrah hasn't said anything ... I can't risk it. I-I _won't_."

Morgana considers the sadness — the heavy register to Merlin's tone that caves into her stubbornness. She breifly closes her eyes and steps towards him, for she knows that he has had to make awful decisions that have sacrificed things he used to hold close. She knows that he is scarred from it. 

But she still realises that she must persuade him otherwise, for Morgana knows that it must be damaging for him to remain in this mindset. Risk, she knows, is a dangerous thing and must be avoided at all costs. Well, she thinks that it's just common sense. A world without risk is a safer one, after all. 

Although, decision is more difficult, for decisions may be hindered by a number of things. That, and they are the carriers of risks.

"The paths of our destinies have changed, Merlin, and there's a fair chance that Mordred's has, too," she tells him, and watches his careful eyes consider this. "I'm not having you fight for me, all while you back Mordred into a corner he doesn't deserve to be in. We're in the same boat, and it's due time you realise that."

With pursed lips and a nagging heart, Merlin watches Morgana turn to leave. He replays her words in his head, the ones that tell him that she still feels so protective over Mordred that she will not consider Merlin's side of things.

He's about to tell her so when she turns back around, but already opens her mouth to speak, and so Merlin closes his.

"Tell me one thing, Merlin," she says. "Did you ever think to tell me of this suspected prophecy?"

Merlin's boot shifts on the ground as Morgana's question throws him. His voice catches in his throat as he considers it - considers the vulnerability in her tone. 

He sighs tightly and forces himself to meet her eyes. "Uh — no. Perhaps it was denial, but … I didn't think Mordred would ever come back around again so it didn't seem very important. But I ... I value you. I truly do, and I ... " he trails off, voice tiring at the raw truth of the words. He shakes his head and reminds himself that he must focus on the situation. "I would never keep anything else from you."

Morgana simply shakes her head. "We're fighting this new prophecy together. That means it's us, Merlin. Otherwise, this isn't going to work. Ask Kilgarrah, do what you have to — I don't care. Just don't go into this new destiny of ours only seeing red with no logical thinking."

And with that, she turns to leave.

But Merlin strides forwards and without thinking, reaches out to grab Morgana's hand. He was going to tell her to wait, but those words and the very syllables seem to catch in his throat as his fingers curl around hers. He swallows and tears his eyes up from their entwined hands, watching Morgana as she turns back to face him.

Merlin makes no move to let go, for he feels that if he did, she may march back inside and leave his yearning question unanswered. Merlin keeps his eyes on Morgana as her careful eyes move from his face, down to their hands. He sees the concern in her eyes as she traces a finger over a slighlty bloodied crack in his hand, and there's a tenderness on her face as she considers this alone. After a moment she looks back at him and frowns softly.

Merlin clears his throat and shakes his head. "If Mordred's destiny hasn't changed - or can't at all, what will you do?" he asks curiously, slowly tilting his head at her. "It's just that ... we have to believe in that possibility, Morgana, if we're going to do this. The possibility that Mordred may not be all he seems to be. Trust me on that one; I've … I've seen enough to know."

Morgana would have snapped at him for condescension but she knows he wasn't being like that. She also knows that he has a point, and that he's had the experience. She still feels protective over Mordred, but Merlin's words ... well, they make sense. 

After all, the fact that Kilgarrah hasn't said anything about Mordred could really split two ways. And they don't know which way it has fallen; either the boy in the cottage is a destined future murderer, or a completely innocent druid wishing for freedom and nothing more.

Morgana nods slowly and meets his eyes once more. "Just ... do one thing for me, Merlin. Talk to Kilgarrah and find out for sure. We'll deal with things after that."

Merlin sighs through his nose and his brows are noticed furrowed in what could be anger or confusion. He takes a moment to look at their hands again, and recalls that they've ever so slightly tightened their grips, if not releasing them.

As he notes the smoothness of her fingers against his sore ones, and as some kind of energetic fire burns in his chest at the touch, he mulls over what Morgana's words actually mean.

Well, for one, it probably means that she has actually come round to his way of thinking, seeing Mordred as a potential threat due to the lack of information they currently possess regarding the potential change in his destiny. Really, he was starting to doubt that she ever would. And he's beyond thankful for that.

He knows that Morgana is right, and that he should have told her about Mordred sooner. And he knows that she is right about him not truly knowing what Mordred's prophecy is, now that everything has flipped upside down. 

For years he had spent believing and doing what others tells him to do - in fact, for so long that he doesn't fully know what it is to make his own decisions and follow his own heart. After all, he had revealed his magic to Morgana after being advised not to, and that has only strengthened the trust and value of their rapport. He knows that he must consider other things to be this way. And, admittedly, he's never really had anyone to share the curses and what-ifs of his destiny with before.

Although, Merlin thinks that Morgana should be less impulsive about this — that she cannot factor emotion in decisions as much as she had done today. He's familiar with Morgana's ability to reason with both her head and her heart without blurring the two, and he only hopes that she finds it soon enough. He resounds faith that she will, for they must both change and learn to succeed in this new prophecy.

"Get some sleep, Merlin, and make sure you talk to Kilgarrah soon enough," Morgana says, breaking the warlock from his deep thoughts.

Merlin looks up, about to answer her, but several of his facial muscles twitch at the worry he discerns — the quiet distress that seems to lie in wait in Morgana's eyes.

"I will, but …. "

"But what?" her voice is nothing more than a hush.

Merlin waits a few moments and steps towards Morgana, making their arms less stretched out as they come closer. He takes her other hand and expects her to pull away, but she does not. "Are you scared, Morgana?"

"Of what, Merlin?" She asks, her mind seemingly torn in all different directions and full of what feels like mist. And she has no doubt that it's the closeness that seems to be happening right now that is making her a martyr to such a thing. But it's also feels like warmth and safety, and it tingles her head.

Merlin's tired blue eyes move to her very slowly, and there is such honesty and concern in them. "Of Mordred not being as innocent as you thought he was. The possibility, I mean."

"It unsettles me," she answers firmly. "But then … destinies make things change and I know that now."

Merlin blinks slowly. "I'm sorry it distresses you-"

"Don't be," she says rather quickly. "We need to consider everything, not just what we want to be. It seems that we have both had to face that tonight."

Merlin involuntarily makes a gruff _hmm_ as he attempts to clear his throat and then fails. He then purses his lips and nods. Then, for some reason, he starts to smile.

"What's so funny?" Morgana asks, not laughing but there remains amusement evident in her eyes.

"I don't know, really. I just sort of feel that I want to thank you."

"Thank me? What possibly for?"

His mouth twitches into another smile as he looks at her. "Well, you know, there are worse people I could be sharing this destiny with."

Morgana's eyes quickly glint with a mischievous amusement as she lightly slaps his chest. "Yes, well, likewise!"

Merlin laughs softly and Morgana shakes her head, her smile fading yet never leaving. She lets go of one of his hands but keeps hold of the other, as she tugs him back inside the cottage and tells him to get some rest.

With a slow blink of his tired eyes, Merlin follows Morgana, still smiling faintly and his boots crunching softly on the sun-dried grit. He fully intends to rest his head as soon as he is met with the soft light and warmth of the hearth, for he is aware that he must speak with Kilgarrah tomorrow, and then decide with Morgana where they go from whatever is revealed in the next day's dawn.

A short while later, he lay on a makeshift bed on the floor, having given his own raised bed for Aldus, and he feels Morgana's eyes on him but he cannot fathom it this time, as sleep grabs him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really hope this one flows alright - I spent ages tweaking it. I also hope I did the little Merlin/Morgana interaction justice, as I hadn't actually planned to have anything like that in there at all, but it just kinda wrote itself. I couldn't bring myself to take it out! 
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I do not own Merlin or its characters (only my own, Estrilda and Aldus) and the title is slightly tweaked but is taken from 'Just my soul responding' by Amber Run all the same.
> 
> finally, just to let anyone who's wondering know - I've changed my username once again (it'll probably show up soon if not already) and this is the last time I'll do that. Honest. 
> 
> ___
> 
> _Next time: Merlin gets answers from Kilgarrah, and a friend from the past pays a visit to the village ..._


	4. The Return of Lancelot

_Three weeks ago:_

_"Kilgharrah. Do you know why I'm here?"_

_The old dragon bows head. His eyelids move slowly in considerate thought, failing to blink in synchrony. "I can only assume that it's something to do with your destiny, young warlock. Although, that's not very much of a guess."_

_Merlin pauses. "Right, well. I sort of had an ... argument with Morgana last night, and it raised some questions ..." and then he trails off, not giving into the impulse to sigh impatiently, when his words are drowned out with the sound of Kilgharrah laughing. The creature's head tosses this way and that. Merlin fails to see the funny side._

_Kilgharrah must realise the way the sorcerer's eyes darken with bore, as he stares expectantly at the creature. "I am sorry, young warlock. Please, continue."_

_"The argument was about Mordred."_

_Kilgharrah takes a moment to straighten his neck as his head looms over the young man opposite him. His scaly expression ceases to show any slight crease of amusement; instead the dragon waits patiently._

_"We came across Mordred two days ago," Merlin begins, "I was wary of him, after what you told me all those years ago. I thought he had evil intent, that ... he was going to kill Arthur."_

_"Young warlock, have you failed to heed your new destiny? Arthur is not your first priority, nor should he be and nor will he ever be, until you return."_

_Merlin pauses, a small frown sensed on his temple. His chin juts in only curiosity. "What do you mean?"_

_Kilgarrah stomps his feet as his voice bellows through the forgiving night: "There will always be something between the destinies. For example, if Mordred did have ill-intent, he would harm your kin, first. Do you see?"_

_Merlin tilts his head to the side and frowns. Even after trying to adjust to this new destiny, he has found himself thinking of Arthur and putting him first in quiet thoughts. "I'm to think of my kin, before Arthur?"_

_"It's not only a way of thinking, young warlock; it is a path followed by the prophecy itself. Your undertaking is to protect your kin and the good magic it upholds. Not to protect Arthur, for he is already protected in Camelot."_

_"But it has a knock-on effect, does it not? The people I fail to defeat are the ones who play a part in Arthur's downfall?" Merlin questions, quickly becoming tired._

_"In some ways, yes, that is an eventuality. But you must first ask yourself: what would Mordred do to harm your kin, to get to Arthur?"_

_"Well ... nothing," Merlin says slowly. "He was destined to kill Arthur alone. He wouldn't need anyone else."_

_"Precisely."_

_"What, so if they're to kill Arthur or harm Camelot, they must go through sorcerers first?" Merlin asks, then watches the dragon nod gently. He sighs and shakes his head wearily. "That doesn't even make sense, Kilgharrah."_

_"It does," Kilgharrah replies somewhat sharply, his ageing voice rough at the edges. "See, they are very closely linked. Your destiny to protect Arthur and bring forth the lands of Albion will, until your return, forever be your secondary prophecy. The one you consider only when the first is taken care of."_

_"And ... the first prophecy is to be dealt with first?"_

_"Yes, and there will be no stopping that, young warlock. The first prophecy is the immediate threat - the one that threatens your livelihoods as they are, now. The one that throws each and every one of your kin into peril. Deal with that first, and you will find that the outcome will have an effect on Arthur and Camelot. A failure to defeat will bleed into the fragile future of Albion, but a success will further secure the lands' union."_

_"A failure will also endanger our kin, and a success will protect it," Merlin thinks aloud, clicking his tongue and letting his focus drift from Kilgarrah for a moment._

_"Not just your kin, Merlin, but the essence and nature of magic itself."_

_"Great," Merlin mumbles, briefly rolling his eyes. "I thought the first prophecy was difficult enough. Although, the druids seem more willing to comply with things and are less prone to stubbornness, than Arthur is. It made protecting him very tedious."_

_"I'm sure it did, young warlock."_

_Merlin snaps himself back to the present and faces Kilgharrah's patient eyes once again. "So, Mordred's destiny has changed, too?"_

_"Yes. He is now your ally in this, and an important one at that. You'd do well to accept that if you don't want to find yourself in another argument with Morgana."_

_Merlin chooses to promptly ignore the dragon's latter statement, but is entirely relieved at the former. "I'm glad of that, Kilgharrah. I never liked the idea of being responsible for the demise of my kin. Or for my kin to be responsible for the demise of Arthur. It was a double-edged sword if there ever was one."_

_Kilgharrah bows to the warlock, before turning his great body. His wings lift and he almost suspends into flight, only first glancing back at Merlin and shouting the words: "Remember what I have said, young warlock. It will serve you all right, in the end!"_

_________________

The present:

Upon returning from his talk with Kilgarrah, Merlin's mind had been brimming with a strange excitement - after all, now that he knows Mordred is of no threat, he feels significantly more relieved.

He had wanted to tell Morgana of this as soon as he returned that late morning, but she had been napping; according to Aglain, she had woken during the night to check on Estrilda, whose fever had worsened. Merlin had tried to be as quiet as he could, but his happiness had overwhelmed his sense of coordination and he'd tripped over a nearby bucket. Mordred had laughed at this, and Merlin had paused. He had considered the boy's amusement and then he had broken into laughter, too.

Needless to say that Morgana had not expected to be woken from her nap by Merlin and Mordred laughing. It had been a sight that swelled her heart and as she looked at Merlin's grinning face, she had only known that he had good news of which direction Mordred's fate had turned.

Merlin had filled her in on the rest of the information - along with the others - as they'd sat around the large table over lunch, that afternoon. Merlin and Aglain had also warned everyone else of Cenred being so nearby. Everything was out in the open, as they all discussed the new destiny and the good magic they are to protect and uphold. The air had been palpable with relief and joy, only mirrored by the birdsong and bright sunbeam outside. 

It had been a few peaceful weeks since then, and with summer drawing to a close, Aglain and Mordred collect the season's wheat harvests and store them in the small shed. Estrilda and Aldus take care of the livestock in the pasture, whilst Merlin and Morgana fix a row of fence that had come loose during the night.

Morgana grins at Merlin's smiling face. "You look happy," she tells him, remnants of lighthearted contentment to her voice. 

He glances up, still smiling, and takes a nail she offers him. He moves to hammer the fence post back in. "I am," he says simply. "We're all safe ... and happy. It's all I could ever have wished for."

She only laughs merrily, placing her hand to his arm as she moves past him. Least to say that they are both very aware of the fact that she lets it linger there, and neither are disagreeing to the fact. After all, in the weeks that had passed, it is not a rare sight to see Morgana lay her head on his welcoming shoulder after a long day, nor is it peculiar to notice the little fleeting nudges or touches that pass between them. Sometimes Estrilda will pointedly look at Morgana with eyes reflecting a teasing 'I told you so', to which the raven-haired sorceress will only smile.

As they move from fence post fence post, they engage in fond chatter about all manner of things, from the beloved subject of magic to some rather farfetched topics that bring them enjoyment anyway. They are conversations that always hold endearment these days, and, of course, they are ones that flow so incredibly well that they could easily talk for hours on end, uninterrupted.

But it seems that they are so, when Mordred runs over to them. He gestures madly towards the forest just beside the pasture, looking panicked. 

Merlin and Morgana share a glance, before the sorcerer manages to calm him down enough to ask him what's wrong. 

"There's a stranger—" Mordred stresses, "—he's just walked into the village. He has a sword and-and ... what if he's one of Cenred's men?" 

Merlin swallows at this prospect, and at the boy's worrying which, quite frankly, he hates to see. "Alright, Mordred. It's alright. Morgana and I will see what he wants."

"Yes, we will," Morgana reassures. "I'm sure he's perfectly harmless."

Merlin and Morgana stride towards the main village entrance, with Mordred traipsing at a safe distance behind them. 

They reach the anonymous figure, but in doing so they startle him. The man grunts, turns, and swings the sword at them. It catches Morgana's arm and she hisses sharply as pain strikes her.

Merlin is wide-eyed as he realises who the stranger is, but he takes precedents in removing his kerchief to wrap around Morgana's wrist. 

"Lancelot, you really need to be more careful with that thing. Maybe use those those things you have called eyes?" Merlin mutters sarcastically as he tries to grin at his old friend.

"Merlin!" Lancelot exclaims, and then glances at Morgana. "I'm so sorry, my Lady, I did not mean to injure you!" 

Morgana pauses at the use of her old title. It throws her and she glances at Merlin briefly, still holding the tourniquet to her arm. Merlin sighs in concern as he repositions the kerchief.

"It's alright, Lancelot. Really, I've faced much worse and it's nothing Merlin here can't fix. His magic is no match for a wound like this," she says teasingly, but then pauses as she realizes what she just said.

Merlin senses her panic, smiling fondly in reply and placing a hand to her shoulder. "He knows, Morgana. Don't worry." He watches the relief wash over her features and then gestures at her arm. "We should get that cleaned up." 

The four amble over to the cottage. Morgana is in pain, Merlin is concerned and glad all at the same time, Mordred is wary, and Lancelot is beyond confused at everything he had just witnessed.

_________________________________

Mordred brings over a bowl of lukewarm water and a cloth to Merlin and Morgana, who sit opposite Lancelot on one of the benches. 

Surprisingly, the druid boy is the one who starts the conversation. Lancelot is still a little too concerned about the trouble he has caused to do that, not to mention being completely bewildered at Merlin and Morgana's new living situation. 

"Who are you?" he promptly says, trying to smile politely but his wariness takes over and instead he looks hostile. 

Lancelot seems a little taken aback by this, and he confusedly glances at Merlin and Morgana. But they only smile to themselves, clearly amused by Mordred's directness.

"Um, I'm Lancelot," the man offers. He tries to make this druid seem more at ease by smiling warmly, but it does not shift the boy's expression.

Merlin stops seeing the funny side and tuts softly, glancing at him. "Don't be so accusing, Mordred. You can see that this man means well." 

"Can I?" he asks, glaring at Lancelot. 

It's Morgana's turn to roll her eyes, but she speaks slightly softer than Merlin did. "Mordred, you have nothing to fear by Lancelot. I can attest that he is one of the most loyal and kind men we have ever had the privilege to meet." 

As Lancelot takes that as his cue to explain to Mordred about how he was banished from Camelot, Merlin and Morgana turn to muttering a quiet and boldly affectionate conversation between themselves. Merlin finishes cleaning the wound as Morgana laughs at something he said, before he uses his magic to instantly heal the wound. He had only cleaned it in case his spell doesn't work, to prevent infection. 

Morgana's arm still lay on Merlin's knees as they both lean back against the wall. 

"Uh - you're not troubled by Lancelot knowing of my magic before you did, are you?" Merlin quietly whispers to her.

She gives him a reassuring smile and squeezes his knee; she knows that he has the tendency to overthink things and she knows that her somewhat intimidating nature does not make it easy. 

"No, Merlin. I'm sure you had your reasons, and-"

"You see," he interrupts, looking down as he rambles worriedly, "it was sort of an accident. He heard me muttering an incantation, and-"

"Merlin," Morgana tries to save him from flapping, but she can't help smiling fondly at his tendency to do exactly that. She lifts a finger to his chin and gently forces his gaze back up to her. "Please calm down. It's really alright. You don't need to explain anything." 

The sorcerer smiles sadly at what Morgana tells him; really, he wishes that he had just told her much sooner than he actually did. And although everything is at peace now, it is a regret that still niggles at him sometimes. But that smile turns sheepish as he realizes how close they are, and then he frowns upon remembering that it is still daylight and everyone is awake and present around them.

Merlin clears his throat and looks at Lancelot and Mordred. He can't help but grin as he clocks Mordred's disgust, and then his old friend's sly realization of warm smile. He resists the temptation to roll his eyes as Morgana stands up with the excuse of leaving the two men to catch up. No doubt attempting to escape the awkwardness that had crept into the air. Mordred gladly follows her. 

"Alright," Lancelot starts, making a wild gesture with his hand and looking rather confused, "please, Merlin. Start from the beginning and tell me what on earth you and Morgana have done to be living in a village in the middle of nowhere with a group of druids."

________________________________________

By the time Merlin finishes his story — about Morgana's magic, and the everything from Aredian's arrival to Arthur and Gwen helping them escape, and then to their ownership of this abandoned village — the sun has already descended outside. The homey aroma of freshly made bread and stew wafts from the kitchens to the sitting area, and only a few birds chatter outside. Only to the orange sun, it seems.

Lancelot is in awe at Merlin's story. Much like Aglain was, only Lancelot has the prior knowledge of everyone in Camelot to leave him severely astounded. 

"I just ... the last time I was in Camelot, Uther lead with an iron fist," Lancelot stutters, frowning softly. "I can scarcely believe what I'm hearing, that Arthur ducked under his shadow to defy him and help you escape. All whilst accepting your magic."

"I know," Merlin says and casually smiles.

It's a truth that he had become so used to tellling this story and mulling it over in his own mind that it had almost become one of those everyday occurrences. But there's always something in the back of his mind that reminds him that everything that happened -- even if some of it was torturous and frightening -- was all part of a beautiful sequence that has ended so peacefully.

"And Morgana?" Lancelot suddenly says, an eyebrow quirked and knowing in his eyes.

Merlin only huffs. "Lancelot, please."

"I see the way you look at her. And-"

"Look," Merlin starts, leaning forwards and looking his friend dead in the eye, "we almost perished last year. Am I not allowed to be relieved that she is safe?"

Lancelot knows he has touched a nerve, so holds his hands up. "I know, and of course you are. But you're not going to get anywhere if you keep denying it. It's more than safety, Merlin." 

"I'm not denying anything," Merlin says simply, shrugging and leaning back against the wall. 

"Yes, you are. And so is she," Lancelot insists quietly, ignoring the way Merlin's face contorts into something resembling disbelief and annoyance. "If I may say so, Merlin, I see how she is with you, and you to her, and I'm no fool to recognising these things." 

Merlin stays quiet. He knows that Lancelot has a point, but more importantly, he is more than aware of the danger zone he is nearing. When he thinks of his affections, he is met with the strange flashes of remembering that they had to distance themselves in Camelot. And despite that they have been free for just under a year, it is still strange to him, to think of crossing that line.

"Yes, alright, Lancelot. Fine," Merlin reluctantly agrees. "But it's something we need to figure out between us, and I'd appreciate it if-"

"I didn't say anything? Of course, my friend. I wouldn't have done anyway. Your secret is safe with me, just like your magic was."

Merlin smiles fondly at Lancelot and his ever-present promises of nobility. He has a rare heart of purity and goodness, and one which Merlin is entirely grateful for.

"It's good to see you again, Lancelot. It's been far too long."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to take an unexpected wee hiatus from this fic, but I'm back up and running now! However my life's a bit hectic at the moment so I can't predict that the next update will be super quick. I'll never abandon it, though! Rest assured that I've got big things planned for this and I fully intend to carry it through :)
> 
> _Next time: There's someone lurking in Cenred's castle, and meanwhile, some more bonding ensues among our happy villagers ..._


	5. A Force of Menace

The woman stalks through the blackened room. Her merciless fingers run across an abandoned fire mantle. A grin flickers her thin pale lips as her nails scratch on the stone. Dust gathers beneath her fingernails, and she looks up to the man who stands on the other side of the room.

"Your visit is most unexpected, my Lady," the man's rough voice rumbles. But there's an evident smile on his face and a twisted adoration in his eyes. 

The woman only smirks at her ally. For so long now, he has been gullible to her beauty and to her ability to think on the spot. He would do anything for her and that's exactly how she prefers it to be.

"It should not be surprising, Cenred," she snarls. "After all, when you told me of these settlers on your land, you were ... let's say ... cunning. You knew that it is something I would immediately take advantage of."

"And your plans?" he asks, the ever-curious ashen greys of his eyes narrowing darkly. He nears her. 

"Well, now that you've told me that they're no longer making a nuisance of themselves in Camelot, I find myself relieved."

"Relieved?" 

"Well, if I'd tried to take Camelot whilst they were still there, they'd have only got in my way," she explains carefully. "Now, I can deal with them separately. And who knows — they might just be of powerful use to me."

"You are unrelenting, Morgause," Cennred observes proudly, a sickly coldness breaking from the back of his throat.

Morgause does not bother to spare him a glance; her own thoughts are pulled into the determination and plottings in her mind.

When she had received Cenred's letter a few days ago, she hadn't known what to feel. She had been angry at first that the reality of this news had impeded her plans to take over Camelot.

Until the coin dropped, and a menacing smile had forced itself to break the thin line on her face. 

Ultimately, Morgause had always wanted to claim Camelot as her own. Not necessarily because it would give her vengeance on Uther — although, that does, of course, have its perks - but because she needs it for what she lusts to achieve. For years now, Morgause has felt the desire to rise in a dark magic, to show these godforsaken and blind lands just how pure magic really is. So-called 'good' magic is not really magic at all, she has decided. No, that is the most erroneous thing she has ever encountered. 'Good' magic is fraudulent and has no place in this world. 

After all, Morgause has always believed that where things are not real, they do not belong.

Morgause's grin stretches wider as she recalls, with the utmost sense of dedication, perhaps the most cunning part of her plan. It is key to it, after all; she is all too aware that there are peculiar beings out there who claim to possess this 'good' magic. But more importantly, there are quite a few of them.

More than Uther Pendragon would like to think.

Morgause falters at that, because it only means that there are capable sorcerers, who, with a little tweaking, will eventually relent and will join her in reuniting the dark magic.

"What do you plan on doing with them?" he asks. It only prods her steady might and further encourages her dangerous determination. 

"You will see," is all she says, the satisfying chants of her plans too special to go rampant on her tongue.

"And after?" he enquires yet again. "Once you have overthrown Camelot, what will you do?"

Morgause's smirk morphs into a scowl. Must she spell everything out for this man? Now she knows why he is among the distrusted circle of forlorn kingdoms in these lands; she wonders what sort of logical mind sits beneath that knotted dark head of hair.

She only exhales tiredly and gazes out of a window. Thick layers of dust and dampness smudge the glass, but she can see clearly enough.

"After I have taken Camelot, Cenred, I shall bring the people to their boney knees. They shall bow to me. Myself and my fellow ... tweaked .... sorcerers will rise and this land shall be reigned with the most unalloyed form of magic. The darkest and richest."

Cenred's smile glares at the blonde woman before him. But he cannot help but feel disappointed; the man fails to see why his Kingdom has been overlooked. 

"Does my stronghold not suit your plans?" 

"No," Morgause snaps. She watches Cenred's features drop in disappointment, his eyes hazing with anger. Morgause does not care. "I need a kingdom that is thriving and one that has good connections. Yours does neither of those things. In fact, your — shall we say, _callous_ — reputation has tarnished it." 

Cenred's jaw tenses as he processes this, but he supposes that she has a point; to achieve such considerable plans, Morgause will need a well-respected castle with a sturdier reliance on the people. Cenred fears that his is far from even nearly touching the edge of meeting those requirements; after all, whilst Camelot is home to golden harvests, many towns and decade-long treaties, Escetir is overgrown, surrounded by decaying trees, contains none but Cenred and his barbaric army, and is a quarter of the size.

Nonetheless, he consoles himself with the fact that Morgause will be making use of his army and his weaponry. He prides himself in that, at least.

Morgause turns from the window, her golden locks of hair spilling over her back. She eyes Cenred with a narrow flick of her focus. 

"The village dwellers on your land, Cenred, are destined to become perhaps the most powerful sorcerers the world has ever known. Their magic is strong and bursting at the seams. Turning it dark will give me the most reliable allies to help me take over Camelot," she sneers. "To say that it will prove invaluable to me and my plans is an understatement."

"It seems that nothing will stand in your way, my Lady." 

Morgause juts her chin and smiles triumphantly.

At long last, he is learning.

____________________________

"You both have magic. Why do you need to sword fight?" is the first thing Lancelot says when he enters the village, but with all the hints of a smile. 

Mordred only laughs and shakes his head, dropping the logs he and Lancelot had been collecting; he'd been the first to volunteer when the kindly man had announced he was going into the forest. He had grown to quite like Lancelot over the past week or so, looking up to his noble qualities and trusting heart. 

"Everyone should learn how to defend themselves, even if it isn't by magic," Morgana is quick to defend.

"Can you tell she's spent almost her whole childhood with Arthur?" Merlin asks, amusement to his voice as he laughs freely at his own humour. 

At that, Morgana raises her sword again, only to have Merlin tactfully block it. She nods her praise to Merlin despite his teasing, before turning back to Lancelot. "Besides, I don't think Arthur will be too comfortable with us using magic for everything once we return."

At this, Lancelot pauses from placing wood on the pile beside the main house. He dusts his hands off on his trousers, splinters and flecks of bark falling to the ground. "You wish to return to Camelot?"

"Yes. Of course," Merlin chimes in, frowning at his friend as if he had grown an extra head. "Once it's safe, mind you. Well, when Arthur is King, it will be a better world."

Lancelot smiles at that and squints at the pair. He crosses his arms and watches as they resume their sword fighting. Merlin seems to have significantly improved since he started, just the day after Lancelot's arrival. His movements are swifter and more cunning. Granted, he does still obviously have two left feet, which is a trait that Lancelot doesn't think he will ever get rid of. But he doesn't mind; he, along with everyone else, knows that Merlin would not be Merlin without tripping over something at least daily. 

"But what about your lives here?" Lancelot asks. 

Merlin glances behind his shoulder as the swords are lowered back to their sides. He glances at Morgana, and then back at the dark haired man. "Uh, well, I suppose it'll keep as it is with some frequent minding."

"Yes, and Merlin can always cart Arthur off here into the sunset if they ever need some time to themselves," Morgana teases.

She grins at Merlin but she can't really see him, with the afternoon sun shining godly streaks down on them. His silhouette is visible, though, which almost instantly prompts her recollection that he may be rather skinny and his legs may be awfully long, but, as she has realised, there's an appeal in that stature. 

She forces those thoughts away just in time for Merlin to stifle a sarcastic laugh at her quip. 

"That's very funny, Morgana."

Returning to helping Mordred stack the log pile for winter, Lancelot only shakes his head and chuckles to himself at their mindless teasing. He doesn't quite know how long they're going to be able to go without the realisations accumulating into something that will only force them to admit their feelings. But he can tell that both of them are stubborn in that regard. He has found that their rapport is lovely to behold — really, he has — but Lancelot doesn't see the point in stepping to and from the line. 

However, Lancelot is a man of the heart, and whilst that means he may be more literal and forthcoming when it comes to matters of affection, he knows that not everyone is, especially since Merlin had told him that they have things to sort through first. But when they will do such a thing, Lancelot really has no clue. However, he knows better than to interference or control how others choose to navigate their lives. 

Whilst Lancelot and Mordred talk happily — shortly joined by Aldus, who wanders over in idle curiosity — more sword clanks can be heard from a short distance away. 

Merlin, having been confined to the wall several times by the advancement of Morgana's sword, decides that it's time to show her what he can really do. 

Safely keeping his magic buried, with it having been banned by Morgana during the lessons, Merlin grins widely. He kicks himself off the wall with his foot, forcing Morgana backwards. He takes advantage of the way her sword faces to the side — a momentary lapse caused by Merlin's sudden burst of skill — and swings the weapon down towards her thigh. She blocks it, of course, but it's not necessarily a swift movement. 

Merlin does not relent; enjoying the way she is grinning madly at him with nothing but curiosity in her eyes, he withdraws his sword and swings it upwards, making a tight circle in the air. Morgana tries to predict what he is planning, and rapidly moves the sword to form a downwards block. But it seems that she is mistaken; Merlin grins again as the sword changes direction and aims for her shoulder. 

The movement comes so quickly and unexpectedly that Morgana has no choice but to surrender and collapse to the ground. 

Merlin smiles triumphantly, and, just to polish off his tact, points the sword downwards so it lightly touches her stomach. He enjoys the way she is looking up at him from the ground, with her head tilted on the ground, pride and content reflecting in her eyes, and mouth twitched in an amused smile. 

After basking in his glory, Merlin drops the sword and offers her a hand. 

"Well done, Merlin," she tells him as she stands. "The element of surprise — very useful for gaining the upper hand when the opponent appears to be winning." 

Merlin swears that he hears something akin to teasing sarcasm in her tone, asides from the pride. He shrugs as they walk back over to the others, who all gathered by the log store to watch the fight. He shoots her another smile, but this time, a wordless one. Her competitivity has always bemused him. In a good way, he knows.

"Well, I, for one, am impressed," Lancelot says, leaning on a fence post. "Not even I was that good when I started training properly."

Merlin scoffs politely. "I wouldn't call that training."

"Oh, wouldn't you?" Morgana joins in, folding her arms. "Surprising the opponent was just lesson one, Merlin. We're hardly finished."

"Lesson one?" Merlin exclaims, the modesty in his voice all but gone and instead replaced with his characteristic clumsy excitement. "Morgana, that took a whole week. We do have a destiny to focus on, you know."

"Yes," she concurs simply, trying to resist laughter. "But there are no threats as of yet, and you've still got a way to go before you're no longer a squire."

"A squire?" Merlin argues, amused again. "I'm not even an official Knight." 

"Fine," she relents, fondly rolling her eyes at him. "We've still got a long way before you get to the _level_ of a Knight." 

"Morgana, is it really necesary to go _that_ far? I mean, we live in the middle of nowhere, and Lancelot has a point. I _do_ have magic."

_"Oh, you love it really."_

Just as Mordred begins to chuckle at Merlin and Morgana's antics — even more amused this time by the fact that they're having another squabble in front of everyone else — his ears are alerted by the sound of a woodpecker.

He turns and gazes, contented, out to the mountains and trees, and suddenly finds himself awestruck at the sight of the lands bathing in the sun. 

Little does Mordred know that somewhere among those trees is a castle lurking in the shadows, a powerful sorceress and an unsuccessful King within it.

Even the cracks in the castle walls seem to shriek and widen, as the torturous words of their plans are echoed around them, over and over. 

Again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was a tad apprehensive posting this chapter. It's my first time writing slow burn and, honestly, I've no idea if I'm doing it right.
> 
> Slow's the key word, right? 
> 
> _Next time: Morgana is plagued by a nightmare which hones in on some conflicting realities ..._


End file.
